Doug Walshhttps://dougwalsh.com
Writer | Traveler | Cyclist | SpeakerFri, 29 Sep 2017 19:40:43 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.8.2An Odyssey Away from Florencehttps://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/09/29/an-odyssey-away-from-florence/
https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/09/29/an-odyssey-away-from-florence/#respondFri, 29 Sep 2017 19:38:31 +0000https://dougwalsh.com/?p=850The first of two requests to submit my full manuscript arrived four days after I mailed off my queries. It wasn’t supposed to happen so soon. But the agent read my 50 pages over the weekend and wanted more. He wanted to read all of it. I swallowed hard, yet the lump in my chest Read More ...

]]>The first of two requests to submit my full manuscript arrived four days after I mailed off my queries. It wasn’t supposed to happen so soon. But the agent read my 50 pages over the weekend and wanted more. He wanted to read all of it.

I swallowed hard, yet the lump in my chest remained. It wasn’t my idea to schedule the PNWA conference for July, that’s just when it fell. My first fifty pages were ready to be shared. The first one hundred fifty, even. But not the rest. Not yet. A November pitch session would have been oh so much better. What to do?

Should I lie? Do I ignore the email until I’m actually ready to send the full novel? No, I argued, that’d be a horrible way to begin a business relationship. Look, I know the odds of me landing an agent on my very first submission are slim, but if I’m not going to believe the possibility is real, then what’s the point?

I nervously typed a response. I needed more time. The second half of the novel still has to go through my critique partners, I explained. And complicating matters, I’d only just that day accepted a six-week writing assignment, where I’d be on-site at Nintendo. I told the agent I was thrilled he wanted to see more, but it would be winter before I could deliver. I hoped he wouldn’t hold it against me.

His reply came just two hours later, nearly 11 pm his time, in New York City. He told me to take all the time I needed, to not worry. He had a mountain of other submissions to get through. He’d look forward to reading my book this winter. Cheers!

Literary agents are really just people, after all. Who knew? I went to sleep that night as relieved as I ever felt. And though this particular agent wasn’t even one I targeted during the pitch blocks — instead, he invited me to send him my pages while chatting at the cocktail reception following the literary contest awards — he quickly vaulted to the top of my list. Knowing that one of his other clients had already amassed a thousand positive reviews on Amazon the week her book launched didn’t hurt.

Super Mario Odyssey

Despite what I said this time last year, when I was filled with frustration over how a couple of strategy guide projects went, I was willing to take on another large project (I’d done two smaller ones this spring and summer, which both went very well). A very specific one. Super Mario Odyssey. If you hadn’t seen any of the footage or gameplay trailers thus far, take a moment to watch this:

One look at that trailer in June was all it took to make me lobby the editor at Prima Games for the project, particularly if my friend Joe was able to co-author with me. He was. We did. All of August, and straight through the week after Labor Day, he and I toiled away at Nintendo’s headquarters in Redmond. The book is currently at the printer, in both hardcover and softcover versions, and scheduled to release alongside the game on October 27th.

Naturally, I can’t talk about the game in detail. But I will tell you this: It’s certainly one of the best games I’ve ever played, if not the very best. I’ve been gaming since the days of the Atari 2600 and never before have I played a game filled with such charm, such variety, and such whimsy. A month into the project, Joe and I were still tapping each other on the shoulder, imploring one another to turn and look at the wild/wacky/wonderful surprise we just uncovered.

I can also say that the guidebook is one of the very best I’ve been a part of. The entire team did a great job (and I’m still amazed by what my co-author Joe and the designers were able to accomplish for one chapter in particular).

Real World Travel

Super Mario Odyssey has a heavy travel theme baked into the game. It’s right there in the title, Odyssey. As fun as the game was, and as much as I needed to be working on my travel-inspired novel, Tailwinds Past Florence, I also took a pair of trips these past few months.

The very same day that I got word that I’d be writing the guide for Super Mario Odyssey — on the way to a trailhead, in fact — a friend asked me if I’d be joining him and some others in Lake Tahoe for a week of mountain biking. Then another asked, seconds later, if I wanted to fly there in his plane.

Yes.

Hell yes.

Between the time spent capturing the screenshots for this fantastic piece of Super Nintendo memorabilia and prepping for the writer’s conference, my July went by in a flash, with nary a single ride on my bike. I needed it. And so I went, taking five days I didn’t really have in the middle of my work on the strategy guide. And what a great time it was. My friend Peter, whose cabin we stayed at, had been vacationing in Tahoe since the 70s and knew the trails like the back of his hand. You can read about our Lake Tahoe Fly n’ Ride here.

Just a sample of the trails we rode during our week in Tahoe.

This almost brings us up to date. But wait! There’s more!

My wife and I have the for-now goal of traveling to Japan every other year and we just arrived back home this week from a ten-day trip to Hokkaido. It was our first time visiting the northernmost prefecture in Japan, and it was a terrific time to do some hiking — and eating, as it turns out. Sapporo, the capital of Hokkaido, was hosting their weeks-long Autumn Festival while we were there. This proved to be a sweet surprise that helped alleviate the disappointment of Typhoon Tamil having interrupted our plans to ferry out to the tiny island of Rishiri. There’s plenty of photos along with an account of our trip right here.

Back to Florence, By Way of London

I didn’t ignore my novel for two months, if that’s what you’re thinking. How could I? It’s in my thoughts, constantly. No, throughout most of August, I adjusted my schedule, I woke at 5am, and got a couple of hours of writing/revising done each morning before driving to Nintendo. And I even attended a few weekly critique group meetings. I had to, it’s the only way I could still hope to be done by winter.

But finally, as of Wednesday, I was back at it. Full time. I spent the afternoon revising a scene I intended to share that night with my critique group. The writing went well, and I have to admit to being somewhat pleased with a few metaphors and turns of phrase as I read the 1400 words to my critique group. But near the end of the scene, I began to feel like I may have strayed into repetition. That my protagonist was expressing the same thoughts and worries as he had at least a couple times before.

My critique partners didn’t hold back. The writing was great, but it sounded familiar. Especially one paragraph at the end. They weren’t wrong. I sensed as much as I read it. We brainstormed ideas until an ah-ha moment hit.

So yesterday I rewrote it again. It’s not a pinch-point scene, and not one of the primary plot points, but one in which I needed to show my protagonist struggling with his best-worst-choice dilemma. Rather than him mulling it over in a woe-is-me kind of way (which he’s done before), I decided to have him get angry. After all, the problem was an intrusion on what was otherwise, a very hot and romantic weekend in London with his wife.

The book is pretty clean, with no explicit sex and hardly any profanity. But damn it felt good to let my main character shout a few f-bombs in his mind. He needed to vent.

No sooner had I finished that scene than I got five chapters worth of feedback from a critique partner. Five chapters filled with the types of suggestions that are going to make the book better, the criticism I need, and the level of praise that makes me blush.

Momentum is building. The odyssey isn’t over yet, but we’re back on the road and gaining speed. Edward and Kara are fast approaching the end of their journey, as I am mine.

]]>https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/09/29/an-odyssey-away-from-florence/feed/0A Great PNWA Conference Was Hadhttps://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/07/25/a-great-pnwa-conference-was-had/
https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/07/25/a-great-pnwa-conference-was-had/#commentsTue, 25 Jul 2017 23:20:02 +0000https://dougwalsh.com/?p=814I know it’s cliche, but what a difference a year makes! When I attended the annual PNWA (Pacific Northwest Writer’s Association) writer’s conference last summer, I did so not knowing anyone, unaware of the literary contest, and eons away from telling an agent about my book. This go-around, I could hardly walk into a room Read More ...

]]>I know it’s cliche, but what a difference a year makes! When I attended the annual PNWA (Pacific Northwest Writer’s Association) writer’s conference last summer, I did so not knowing anyone, unaware of the literary contest, and eons away from telling an agent about my book.

This go-around, I could hardly walk into a room or down a hallway without seeing a familiar face, being asked how Tailwinds Past Florence was coming, or being wished good luck in the contest. Sure, the Finalist ribbon dangling from my name badge helped with the latter, but what a treat it was to recognize so many people from last year, put Twitter profiles and personalities together, and feed off one another’s energy.

Yes, I even chatted with the woman whose car I rear-ended last summer. And yes, I even used the horribly corny line “we’ve got to stop running into one another like this,” as an ice-breaker. I then offered to abide a 50-foot buffer if she felt safer that way.

Conference Buddies

I spent much of the time between panels and pitch sessions hanging out with my outstanding critique partner Sandra. While only one member of my critique group was there all four days, along with fellow-finalist Jeff for the awards banquet on Saturday, I certainly expanded the circle of my tribe last week.

What a treat it was to drink and dine and chat with writer/presenters William Kenower, Gerri Russell, and Lindsay Schopfer; to befriend dozens of dedicated writers who, just like me, are taking the steps necessary to follow through on a dream. A lifelong one in many instances. And to collect personalized autographed copies from Christopher Vogler (The Writer’s Journey), the incredible keynote speaker, Natalie Baszile (Queen Sugar), and the eventual winner of the Nancy Pearl award, Lori Tobias (Wander).

Perhaps the biggest difference this year was that I know nearly all of the PNWA staff. And what a wonderful collection of people to volunteer alongside. I don’t know what I did to deserve the volume of support and encouragement the folks at PNWA funnel my way, but it certainly makes a guy feel welcome.

Pitch Session Intrigue

Unlike last year, my conference this time around was all about pitching. I spent the days leading up to the conference researching the agents and editors in attendance, trying to figure out which of the dozens of names would be most appropriate for me to pitch to. And, of course, perfecting my pitch.

Pitch sessions are essentially speed dating, something this husband of twenty years has no experience in. For those who are equally unfamiliar with the concept, allow me to explain. Authors funnel into a room, sixty or so at a time, and line up in front of the agents we want to pitch to next. Some twenty lines form behind a blue piece of tape. Steps ahead, the twenty corresponding agents sit behind a ballroom-length table, arm’s reach from another. Authors take their seat and launch into it, each trying to be heard over the cacophony.

Four minutes isn’t a lot of time to introduce yourself, your book, and hopefully answer and ask some questions. But it’s doable.

I attended a pitch practice session on Thursday and received both praise and some helpful advice on how to tighten my pitch and avoid a touch of confusion from my introduction. It helped.

Two o’clock came and it was on. I had seven agents and one editor that I wanted to focus on. Impossible in a single ninety-minute session. Fortunately, my early-bird registration earned me a second pitch block at four o’clock. I was nervous at first, but the agents are just people (so they say!) and it ultimately went well, a brief stumble aside.

“Here’s my card, send me the first fifty pages.”

Those are the words everyone wants to hear.

I heard some form of it seven times. The one agent to pass on account of having zero tolerance for anything magical/fantastical (my novel has a time-travel element) referred me to two members of her agency who might be interested.

In other words, I was effectively eight for eight.

Deep breath. Fist pump. Drinks are on me!

I’d be remiss if I didn’t at least mention the concerns nearly every agent had. Tailwinds Past Florence, they said, sounds very interesting. It’s original. They love the experience I bring to it, but it’s an ambitious concept for a debut author, especially since I’m dealing with multiple points-of-view and a non-linear timeline.

“Excellent. Send the first three chapters so I can see how you handle the POV shift.”

Or some version of that. Rinse. Repeat. Just as I hoped.

And, to be perfectly honest, I love this challenge. It is a complex plot, but I do feel I’m up to it, else I wouldn’t have been pitching. I hope they agree.

And the PNWA Contest Winners Are…

After a rather triumphant Friday spent pitching agents (and an editor from St. Martin’s Press who also requested a submission), I returned on Saturday to spend the day moderating panels. My wife Kristin joined me in time for drinks and the awards banquet. Despite being allowed into the ballroom early, and provided with reserved seating, we still ended up sitting far off in the corner.

The prime seating filled in while Kristin and I spent twenty minutes chatting with one of the agents I pitched to. I didn’t mind. At all.

The PNWA Literary Contest, as I explained in an earlier post, had a dozen categories, each with eight finalists. The Mainstream category was first and I didn’t have long to wait to see if I was a winner.

Mine was the first name called: Third place in Mainstream.

Yes, that’s right, the novel born on the slopes of the Pyrenees has won its first award!

At this point I should probably define what the Mainstream category is. It’s a catch-all for books that don’t fit into a tidy genre (i.e. Romance, Mystery, Fantasy, etc.). It’s for books that, ultimately, blend conventions of different genres and aim for a higher quality of prose (which isn’t to say genre books aren’t well-written). Some would call it Literary. I consider it the upmarket commercial fiction that I enjoy reading. Perhaps a better explanation is to say that character development is as much, if not more important than plot.

But what a treat it was to be the very first name called. I was able to spend the entire dinner free from the stress of wondering if I was a winner, content to sit back and clap for the other names called.

After dinner, the award winners were invited along with the agents and editors to a cocktail reception in the courtyard. There I mingled over a drink and got to better know the agents I pitched to, along with others. Several more invited me to submit. Here’s my card, send me fifty pages. I’ll never tire of those words. And then the party moved upstairs, to a penthouse suite at the hotel. And two more agents who I talked with asked for those same fifty pages. One, I should mention, wasn’t even attending the pitch sessions. But when you’ve inked million-dollar contracts for your clients, you probably don’t have to.

A Reading From the WIP of Doug

Contest winners were invited to read from their entry the following morning, as one of the final sessions on the conference calendar. I was reluctant to do this, but attended anyway. I couldn’t be happier that I did.

While the room only had forty or fifty people in it, most of them finalists and prize winners, it was a real treat to stand up before a room and read the opening of my novel. But perhaps not why you think.

Each and every author who read impressed me, from Jodi Freeman, the winner of the Mainstream category to Bruce Funkhouser, the runner-up in Mystery/Thriller and so many others. I was in awe of my fellow winners and finalists. It’s easy, perhaps human nature, to doubt the caliber of company we keep when we find quick success. I know I certainly wondered exactly how good the others were if I could find myself on the stage on my very first attempt.

I wonder that no more. Though it was certainly a treat to have a line from my reading recited back to me after the panel ended, the real treat was simply knowing that this contest was no joke. That the people who entered — and won — were very talented, their entries polished, their writing voices clear and strong.

It was a successful conference for me, by any standard. But the one element that had me feeling as if this writing thing might truly, honestly be within my grasp, was that the contest readers and agent who judged the category saw my writing worthy of being included with the others.

If we are truly judged by the company we keep, I’m doing pretty well for myself. Because what the other winners read was nothing short of excellent. I can only hope they felt the same about mine.

]]>https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/07/25/a-great-pnwa-conference-was-had/feed/2A Contest Announcementhttps://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/06/11/contest-announcement/
https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/06/11/contest-announcement/#respondMon, 12 Jun 2017 00:32:49 +0000https://dougwalsh.com/?p=798I interrupt my blogging hiatus to bring word that Tailwinds Past Florence has been selected as a finalist in the Pacific Northwest Writers Association’s annual Literary Contest. But wait, there’s more! This is but only a fragment of the exciting (and slightly disappointing) news I want to share with you today. So read on for Read More ...

]]>I interrupt my blogging hiatus to bring word that Tailwinds Past Florence has been selected as a finalist in the Pacific Northwest Writers Association’s annual Literary Contest. But wait, there’s more! This is but only a fragment of the exciting (and slightly disappointing) news I want to share with you today. So read on for a proper update about how work on my novel — and this headfirst dive into reinventing my writing career — is progressing.

PNWA Contest – Mainstream Finalist

My phone, as it so often does in the Faraday cage I call home, went straight to voicemail without ringing. This despite me sitting beside it, willing it to ring, despite carrying it with me on my morning run up Mt. Si (one of David Lynch’s Twin Peaks) and despite even taking it into the shower with me two hours earlier. I knew the contest organizers would be notifying the finalists by phone over the weekend. It was a 425 area code, local. I took a deep breath and played the message. I was one of them; one of the eight finalists in the Literary/Mainstream category.

I don’t care if I win.

No, that’s not true. At all. Of course, I hope I win. It’s the prize money I don’t care about.

The finalists in each category will now be passed along to an agent or editor attending this summer’s PNWA conference in Seattle. She (or he, but probably she) will read through the entries and determine the top three who, for several seconds during dinner, will be the envy of a room full of their peers.

The real prize comes earlier. Finalists attend the conference with a name badge marking them so. This presumably comes in handy while mingling throughout the conference and, more importantly, when pitching agents and editors during your pitch session, of which I’m signed up for two. There’s also a special cocktail reception after the dinner for agents, editors, and contest finalists. Many writers are introverts and struggle in these settings. I do not. (Correction: the reception is only for the top 3 prize winners in each category, not all 8 finalists).

Of course, this has also created extra work for me. I now must add an extra sentence to the beginning of my query letter. Insert winking emoji here.

Critique Feedback

I recently sent chapters four through seven out to my pre-beta readers, the next sixty pages that has achieved the coveted green status (i.e. fourth draft) in my color-coded progress scheme. Earlier last month I received my first three chapters back from a literary consultant, care of the critique I won from an auction held by Fuse Literary. These earlier chapters had already gone through multiple revisions and achieved “blue” status. Now they’ve been revised again.

Her general comments were positive. Flattering, actually. Words like “very impressed” and “eager to read more” were used. She made two general comments in the email, then referred me to the marked-up attachment in which she did her line-editing.

Having never received line-edits from a professional literary consultant before, I was taken aback. There was just so much… ink. It seemed wrong.

I skimmed the pages quickly, feeling the wind fall from my sails. I closed my laptop and did something else. And then even more other things.

Several days later I came back to her line-edits with fresh eyes, free of the defensiveness I felt creeping into me on that initial glance. I saw that many of her suggestions were quite good. I had a tendency to slip in a touch too much description in the middle of an otherwise suspenseful moment. So I trimmed the fat. And then I trimmed some more. I also realized some of her suggestions were based on incomplete data. She’d only seen the first fifty pages. Info that may have seemed extraneous to her was really foreshadowing. But how could she know? Nobody could.

The best thing of all, however, was a comment she made about the second sentence. I had been on the fence, debating with myself whether or not to cut it. She striked it and left a footnote saying, effectively, that the opening sentence was so strong, she didn’t know why I’d want to soften it with the brief follow-up. My thoughts exactly.

Listen to those gut instincts people.

A Real Writer Now

I received my first rejection letter while I was on vacation with friends in Florida. It was in response to the fifty pages that were requested based on a Twitter pitch I had done in April. While she “loved the concept” she didn’t fall in love with the execution. And that can be for any number of reasons beyond the quality of my writing (it could also be precisely due to the quality of my writing). For example, she largely represents romance novels. The overwhelming majority of romance novels have female protagonists. Tailwinds does not. Nor is it a romance novel.

That’s fine. This entire process is so highly subjective. Finding the right agent with the right needs at the right time is harder than finding a semicolon in a Dr. Seuss book.

And that’s what has me feeling happy about the contest. Though I believed in the quality of my entry, there’s no guarantee that two people will independently judge it worthy. And all contest entries were read and scored by two people, anonymously.

A New Cover Sets Sail

I attended the monthly PNWA seminar the other night, presented by the fantastic Gerri Russell. Gerri will be giving several presentations at the conference this summer and, for one of them, she needed volunteers. Volunteers who were interested in getting a new, free, redesigned book cover.

I knocked over four tables and an old man in a walker in my effort to reach the sign-up sheet first.

The cover for One Lousy Pirate was a strict DIY effort. The chance to get a free professionally-designed cover was too good to pass up. So I filled out Gerri’s design questionnaire about what I’m looking for and her designer is going to get back to me with a couple of mock-ups. We’ll fine-tune from there. My one rule: no pirate symbolism.

The only downside to all of this is that Gerri’s presentation on the importance of cover design takes place during my pitch session. Fortunately they sell recordings of the presentations at the conference.

]]>https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/06/11/contest-announcement/feed/0Post-Travel Heartache Disorderhttps://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/06/01/post-travel-heartache-disorder/
https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/06/01/post-travel-heartache-disorder/#respondThu, 01 Jun 2017 20:48:33 +0000https://dougwalsh.com/?p=792Remember when social media first became a thing? We logged onto Facebook or Classmates and added our best friends and immediate family and then what? We looked up our old flames. It’s okay, most of us did it. Curiosity gets the better of all of us sometimes. I looked up a few. I was happy Read More ...

]]>Remember when social media first became a thing? We logged onto Facebook or Classmates and added our best friends and immediate family and then what? We looked up our old flames. It’s okay, most of us did it. Curiosity gets the better of all of us sometimes. I looked up a few. I was happy to see one married with kids, living not far from her parents; satisfied and unsurprised to see another as single and vapid as I expected; and was concerned when neither Google nor Facebook could report on a third. I hope she’s okay.

It’s important not to loiter. I didn’t pine for the old days or wonder what could have been. And I wasn’t jealous. Nor did I have the urge to go High Fidelity and seek them out, wondering what it all meant.

Then again, I’ve been in love with my wife for over half my existence without a single regret.

I’m also head-over-heels infatuated with the little corner of the world in which I live. And not just my town, but the region we proudly call Cascadia. My soul soars each day I look to the mountains ringing my town, I thrill at the bounty of recreational options that lie minutes from my front door—and the collection of cultural, creative, and culinary outlets that exist a few miles downhill to the west, in Seattle.

Yet western Washington isn’t my only geographical love.

Of Maps and GPS Tracks

I was loading a new cycling course onto my GPS recently and saw that the device’s memory was nearly full. I opened the course folder, wondering how that could be, and saw dozens of files with names like Kalamata_Mystras, Istanbul_Ephesus, and MalayPort_Singapore. The files dated from 2015, a list of start and finish locations outlining the last several thousand miles we cycled on our two year journey.

My mind traveled halfway around the world, envisioning the roads leading in and out of each town, the meals we ate, the people we talked to. It felt like a lifetime ago, something we did only in the fog of a dream seldom remembered.

I opened Google Maps and panned to the Mediterranean, zooming in on whatever was centered. The country didn’t matter to my homesick heart.

Kefalonia came into view, that sizable Greek isle off the west coast of the Peloponnese. And there was the road we took south from the ferry, beginning a mountainous circumnavigation of the island in the scorching July heat. I dragged the little orange man onto the map, depositing him atop a hill on the southern side of the island. By luck and the peculiarities of my at-times superhuman memory, I landed a few mouse clicks from a dusty bus stop we sheltered in during a midday snack break, a short walk from a convenience store where I bought several liters of water.

A flick of the mouse brought me east, to Turkey, near the city of Konya, the country’s most conservative. I paused for a moment, thinking back to the day we arrived in Konya, trying to envision the route to our hotel. I recalled the high-speed descent, my rear tire running low on air, the approaching thunderstorm, and eventually the pelting rain that had us seeking shelter at a service station.

My eyes watered at the memories.

The Little Reminders

When I really feel like depressing myself, I wonder what it would be like as a widower. I know, I know. Why would I do that to myself? Sometimes I can’t help it; the downward spiral sucks me in.

I don’t linger on the big things, the aspects of suddenly being without that would challenge my desire to go on. I know those feelings would eventually fade. Or be so ingrained in my existence I wouldn’t think of them every waking moment. They’d be normalized. Instead, I dwell on the little things, the reminders of the inside jokes we share, the peculiarities of our relationship, and the eccentricities that make her her. Those would be the hardest to suffer reminders of.

We spent a weekend at the coast last month, a chance to get away with our puppy and let her run and frolic on one of the widest, flattest, beaches in North America. We arrived late Friday night, after a four-hour drive through torrential rain and driving wind. Next to the soap and shampoo in our room was a small toiletry kit containing a bevy of items, including a small packet. It was a makeup remover towelette. Just like the ones we collected from hotels around the world, an insignificant item I never noticed in my prior years on this planet, but became something I hoarded on the road. They were perfect for cleaning greasy hands after working on the bikes.

Neither oyster shooters nor pints of local beer could brighten my mood. I hit a funk. The makeup remover reminded me of what no longer was, and how our plans for after had melted away. How our return home bore no trace of the post-trip life we envisioned.

I wondered aloud if I would be happier today having never even had those experiences. I posited that knowing precisely what we no longer could do was worse than never having done it in the first place—that ignorance, pardon the cliche, was truly bliss.

It All Leaves a Mark

Though I never spend any time thinking of the past girlfriends I looked up on Facebook several years ago, there are, of course, the occasional reminders. A particular song on the radio, for example, or a line from a movie. I smile at the memory, enjoying the moment, and carry on. No part of me wishes things were different. Yet, I also know those people and the experiences we shared helped shape who I am.

Everyone we encounter, everywhere we go, and all we see leaves its mark; a million tiny asteroids bombarding us, our imperfect slate, at all times, from all directions, indenting our being with impressions of themselves.

Sometimes the impact is painful. Other times, it’s the separation that leaves us reeling.

I’m often referencing places I’ve been on Google Maps for work on my novel. I zoom in tighter and tighter on the alleys and storefronts, panning the crowded roads of Google Street View, and I get jealous. In my imagination, the people strolling the piazzas in Florence are always there, forever traveling, immortalized by the car with the crazy camera on its roof.

These people, licking their gelato and sipping their Chianti, are where we were. Where we’re no longer. Where I wish I was.

It hurts, the constant reminders of what no longer is. Yet I stalk the cities and roads we traveled, leering from the far side of the Internet, checking on the places we’d been, jealous of those now there. As if Street View was real-time, I curse the people I see, like a scorned lover watching intertwined shadows outside an ex’s bedroom window.

And I’m left with a choice. We all are. Every one of us who has ever had and lost or loved and been hurt, we all must decide whether to risk it again.

Do we add to the memories and invite new impressions on ourselves? This, I realize, is to risk future heartache. For even the most benign objects in our life — a hotel toiletry, for example — can stir up memories that remind us of what no longer is. The more we invite into our lives, the more places we go, the more we open ourselves to future pain.

]]>https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/06/01/post-travel-heartache-disorder/feed/0Hooked on the Nintendo Switchhttps://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/05/23/hooked-on-nintendo-switch/
https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/05/23/hooked-on-nintendo-switch/#respondTue, 23 May 2017 23:57:39 +0000https://dougwalsh.com/?p=780Nintendo’s back. I didn’t believe it at first. Years of hard-learned experience encased me like a Koopa shell, protecting me from their empty promises. So much dust piled atop unsupported consoles and one-trick gimmicks obscured my memories of the golden years. The Nintendo Switch is different, I was told. You just need to play it. Read More ...

I didn’t believe it at first. Years of hard-learned experience encased me like a Koopa shell, protecting me from their empty promises. So much dust piled atop unsupported consoles and one-trick gimmicks obscured my memories of the golden years. The Nintendo Switch is different, I was told. You just need to play it. It’s not like before.

It wasn’t that accepting the Switch hype forced a struggle against my better instincts. I wasn’t a scorned gamer wary of falling victim to the hype machine, afraid of another disappointment. It was worse than that. I had given them up for dead. Nintendo, a company that exerted gravitational forces on my childhood—my early career even—was a non-entity to me. An ex-lover across a crowded room whose silhouette stirred no emotion.

And now I’m mainlining the Kool-Aid.

On-Site, Nintendo Switch in Hand

Last month I reached out to my contacts at Prima Games to remind them that I was still interested in projects of the short-term, fire-drill variety. Assignments where I could swoop in, work myself silly for a week or two, and return to writing my novel. I instantly received an offer to work on a project that would effectively be the polar opposite of what I desired. Flattering, of course, but I couldn’t turn it down fast enough. My sanity and my marriage demanded it.

My last visit to Nintendo’s Redmond offices was for Metroid Prime, back in 2003. That building is now an employee soccer field. It wasn’t all that has changed.

From a D-pad shaped sofa in a sparkling new building, I stared across the lobby at the Switch demo, hoping the device wouldn’t make my hands cramp the way the Wii U did and desiring nothing more than confirmation that the game in question could be played without motion controls.

It took some time, but we were finally set up. I was playing the Switch, a fantastic device whose flexibility, in case you don’t know, is remarkable. Play it on the couch, in bed, or even in a bar. See for yourself.

While impressive, the play anywhere nature of the device isn’t what hooked me. Nor was it the console’s surprisingly impressive graphics or the Pro Controller, a controller that, somehow, improved upon the near-perfect design of the Xbox 360 controller. No, what won me over is something less physical, but so much more important. It was being reminded of Nintendo’s philosophy toward game design.

What Gaming Should Be

I wrote last year about my attempt to truly give the game Skyrim a try. After fifteen hours I gave up, convinced it was little more than a mind-numbing exercise in checklist completion. There was tons to do, perhaps even a lifetime of quests and skills to master, but none of it was fun, no aspect compelling. The only reason to do anything was because I am a human susceptible to the tiny drips of dopamine released by the treadmill gaming experiences of this flavor.

A friend who shares this complaint, not only about Skyrim but the current state of gaming as a whole (fun fact: many game developers now hire psychologists trained in understanding addiction to better hook players) swore to me that the Switch was different. He explained that Nintendo had chosen to eschew Achievements, leaderboards, and other means of psychological manipulation that has bloated games and turned them more into work. He insisted I give it a try, confident I wouldn’t be disappointed.

“I’ll probably get one,” I conceded. “But Breath of the Wild is still an open-world game and it has crafting. I’m not interested,” I said, referring to the newest Legend of Zelda game, recalling the stories of people having logged over a hundred hours in the game.

“It’s not only the best Zelda, it might be the best game ever made.” High praise indeed from someone I trust.

I bought a Switch from the company store (perk of being a contractor) my second day on-site and, despite having spent ten hours playing the Switch all day for work, I stayed up until midnight that night playing Mario Kart 8 Deluxe. Despite not knowing the courses and struggling to finish in the middle of the pack in my online races, I couldn’t put it down.

Having installed-and-uninstalled over a dozen PC games in the prior few weeks, not one lasting more than thirty minutes on my hard drive. I wondered if I was through with gaming forever. Gaming, my lifetime hobby, had become pointless.

And then came Mario Kart.

I was gaming online with people from all around the world — flags decorate your profile picture in the Worldwide server — and communication was limited to a dozen or so canned emotes, the harshest of which equates to a boast that you’ll win next time. Most are saccharine. Avatars called Miis wave and dance before races and players say “Thanks for playing” before logging out. Coming from a decade of hearing every vulgar, racist, misogynistic comment a human can hurl while playing Gears of War, it was rather strange at first. The childishness of it was off-putting, the in-race silence was odd and unsettling. And then I came to love it.

Yes, in my home, I might be cursing every time a fellow racer hurled a shell at me or hit me with a lightning bolt, but at least the other players don’t have to hear me. Nor I hear them. It was more fun than playing against the A.I., but without the toxicity that plagues so many online experiences. It was the best of both worlds.

And while there are various challenges in the game like Time Trial ghosts to beat and triple star championships to win, the only carrot is your own self-satisfaction. Completing these feats affords you no digital bragging rights, no bells and whistles. These tasks exist to help you get better at the game.

Legendary Zelda

I wrapped up my project and flew to Florida that night on a red-eye. We were spending ten days at my mother-in-law’s beach house, the first five days of which were spent with friends of ours. My Switch-to(u)ting friend was in attendance and he came bearing gifts. “I can’t live in a world where Doug Walsh refuses to play Breath of the Wild,” he said, handing me a copy of the game.

I thanked him, knowing what what would happen. I’d play it for an hour or two, shrug, and put it away unfinished and forgotten.

Or so I thought.

Ten days later, after wireless Mario Kart battles between our two devices (four players, two on each Switch in tablet mode) and random Snipperclips tomfoolery, I boarded the plane with a fully-charged console. I began playing Zelda as soon as we hit cruising altitude and didn’t pause it once until the battery light flashed two and a half hours later. It’s unlike any Zelda game I’ve ever played and it’s utterly brilliant.

It’s a fresh breeze in the doldrums that is the current state of gaming.

Yes, it’s open-world, but it’s open-world done right. I’m exploring with a sense of curiosity, not the dread of obligation. The game reveals itself gradually, rewarding your thoroughness, but not overwhelming you with mindless tasks and busy work. There is crafting (cooking) but it doesn’t get in the way of the experience. The combat is fluid, the action visceral, and the story exists to guide the player, not stroke the ego of the developer.

At less than ten hours in, I know I’ve barely scratched the surface. Yet I continue to marvel at the game. My generous friend was right, it’s the perfect game for me.

About Those Golden Years…

This is going to sound ridiculously cheesy, but there’s something to playing the Switch that just makes me smile. Unlike the NES Classic which I also recently bought, the Switch is the true time machine to those halcyon days of my gaming youth. Back when I played games because they were fun, not because I was out to amass a higher Gamerscore.

Yes, there are drawbacks to the Switch. The lack of cloud saves is disturbing, the prices for games can be high (Thumper is $20 on Switch, but only $14 on Steam), and the device ships with a plastic screen instead of glass. But these are minor annoyances.

As someone working (again) in the industry, I’m also privy to certain information about upcoming games. And what excites me most about the Switch — and what tells me this won’t be like the Gamecube’s latter years or the Wii or Wii U — is that Nintendo has an incredibly ambitious plan for supporting the Switch. Even if third-party support doesn’t coalesce around the Switch, there appears to be more than enough first-party games on the way to justify the purchase.

For the first time in well over a decade, the problem won’t be finding enough games to play on a Nintendo console. The problem will be finding the time to play them all.

]]>https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/05/23/hooked-on-nintendo-switch/feed/0First Draft Completehttps://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/04/25/770/
https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/04/25/770/#respondTue, 25 Apr 2017 21:07:33 +0000https://dougwalsh.com/?p=770I always thought it would happen with a cigarette and a glass of champagne. I’d type THE END then lean back from my rustic, well-worn desk, ala James Caan, and soak in the satisfaction and relief of having poured everything I had into telling a story that needed to be told. The truth is, it Read More ...

]]>I always thought it would happen with a cigarette and a glass of champagne. I’d type THE END then lean back from my rustic, well-worn desk, ala James Caan, and soak in the satisfaction and relief of having poured everything I had into telling a story that needed to be told.

The truth is, it was nothing like Misery. For starters, I don’t smoke and I’m no fan of champagne. But even beyond those trivial discrepancies, it was not at all how I expected it. There was no Kathy Bates, just misery.

The misery of knowing that there’s still so much to do. Yes, I have a 320-page manuscript, a complete story that works. Or so I believe it does. But there’s much work to be done: the latter 200 pages are still cool in the center and this is a very labor-intensive cooking process.

I didn’t write THE END because there is so much to do. But I did print a title page. I did allow myself that one conceit.

The first draft is done. Yay!

The first draft is done. Sigh.

Workflow in Process

According to one of the many spreadsheets that I built to track my progress, I’m currently 39% complete with Tailwinds Past Florence. This assumes all stages are equal in weight and difficulty, which they’re not. The hardest part is done. The step I labored over and resisted and procrastinated against. That part is done. The blank page has been slain.

My intent when I began writing in 2016 was to not revise a single sentence until the first draft was complete. I didn’t want to chance falling into the trap of endlessly polishing a single scene before I had any idea if the story even worked. This plan went out the window once I got accepted into my wonderfully helpful critique group. My workflow split along parallel paths, two lanes if you will. One was slow, riddled with speed-bumps and tolls. The other was fast, and fun to drive. The left lane, the cruising lane, was revision. The other: my first draft.

So I altered my workflow again. With roughly twenty-five scenes left to write, I revised my approach to my first draft. I realized that what I was writing was really more like Draft 1.5. It was better than a lot of first drafts probably should be, but it was slow going. I wasn’t TK-ing anything (leaving details “to come”). I was writing emotion, dialogue, setting, description, and feeling all in that first draft. And doing so took time.

So I adapted my process. And managed to write three and sometimes four new scenes each week, all the while continuing to advance another scene each week from first draft to third, with the help of my critique group’s feedback.

And now the first draft is done. These latter scenes are more like Draft 0.9 compared to those that precede it. They’re raw. I wouldn’t let my dog read them. It’s mostly blocked out dialogue and action with little emotion or internal feeling and thought. There’s no metaphor or simile, no clever turns of phrase. But the story’s there.

And best of all, I know what I need to go back and add.

A Touch of Twitter Success

I try to spend no more than twenty minutes on Twitter each week. And when you look at it as briefly and sporadically as I do, it’s easy to miss the benefits of the platform. Fortunately, a couple weeks ago I happened to log in just as the Fuse Literary Agency posted about their critique auction benefiting the ACLU. Their dozen or so agents were each auctioning off one and two chapter critiques in exchange for a winning donation to the ACLU. I had been meaning to send a donation along anyway — they can use all the help they get these days — and this was the perfect opportunity to give more than I might have otherwise and gain a professional critique in the process. I didn’t expect to win one of the critiques, but damn if I wasn’t thrilled to do so.

So I sent off my first 44 pages two weeks ago and hope to get the critique back within the next week or two. Those chapters have been heavily revised and even been shared with beta readers, but this will be the first professional set of eyes to see them. I’m as excited for the feedback as I am nervous to hear what she has to say.

That same day on Twitter I also saw mention of a Pitchfest being hosted by The Knight Agency. Describing a 94,000-word novel in 140 characters is a skill all its own and, if I’m being honest, participating in the Pitchfest was certainly me falling victim to Resistance, but I convinced myself it would be a good experience (I can talk myself into just about anything). So, the next day, I Tweeted my pitch. And then an hour later, I revised and Tweeted a different pitch. Then again. And, finally, I did it one last time.

Edward’s bid for a new job threatens Kara’s dream of cycling around the world, pushing her into the arms of a centuries-old rival #TKA20#MA

And the head of the agency, Deidre Knight, requested my submission. Yay!

So one day of yielding to Resistance became two as I spent that evening and the following day writing and revising a query letter. Something I still need to do as I fear it still reads a tiny bit too much like my synopsis.

I probably won’t hear back (if at all) for at least another month or two, but there’s no hurry. I’ve got a lot of work to do.

]]>https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/04/25/770/feed/0Friday Links #30: Purell is a Fetishhttps://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/04/07/friday-links-30-purell-is-a-fetish/
https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/04/07/friday-links-30-purell-is-a-fetish/#respondFri, 07 Apr 2017 18:14:50 +0000https://dougwalsh.com/?p=763Rather than give an update about my novel or recent life events, I want to tell you about the book Siracusa by Delia Ephron. I spend Wednesdays in the library, hunched over a desk, noise-canceling headphones on, polishing a scene I intend to share with my critique group later that night. Sometimes, if I’m running early, I’ll browse Read More ...

]]>Rather than give an update about my novel or recent life events, I want to tell you about the book Siracusa by Delia Ephron. I spend Wednesdays in the library, hunched over a desk, noise-canceling headphones on, polishing a scene I intend to share with my critique group later that night. Sometimes, if I’m running early, I’ll browse the “Choice Reads” shelves on my way out. Other times, it’s the “New and Interesting” tables. I’m always on the lookout for books that might, possibly, serve as comps for when I query Tailwinds Past Florence.

Siracusa is about two couples, each struggling with their marriage, who decide to vacation together in Italy. First to Rome, then to the Sicilian town of Siracusa. Sadly, the struggling marriage in Italy part is where the comparisons with my own book end (ultimately, it’s a bit quieter and more literary than mine). Fortunately, the book was entirely worth reading. Siracusa is written first-person multiple POV style, with each character telling their version of the events in the past tense, as if they were being interviewed for a documentary. The only character to not get their own chapters is Snow, the tween daughter who accompanies cloying mother Taylor and distant dad Finn.

It’s a drama, it’s a character study, and it’s peppered with an excellent blend of laugh-lines and frustration. Ideally, the individual character voices would be more unique, but the internal dialogue really stands out and sets the characters apart. There’s Taylor, the helicopter mom, Michael the two-timing playwright, Finn, the restaurateur who doesn’t know what he wants, and Lizzie, the one just trying to make it all work. Or so it seems. Lizzie is the snark-filled vessel in which the reader best connects with the characters. Her viewpoint is whose we trust the most. And it’s through her POV that Ephron delivers a paragraph of internal observation that I can’t help but share. If you’ve ever rolled your eyes at someone’s obsession with hand sanitizer, this is for you.

The setup: Lizzie is alone with high-maintenance Taylor at a cafe near Rome’s Pantheon. They both know this trip was a bad idea (an idea concocted on the spot when they had run into each other in London the prior year). They don’t really care for one another. Lizzie (and the reader) knows Taylor is absurd. Taylor has just extracted a small bottle of Purell from “one of six compartments of her efficient purse” and offers Lizzie a squirt. Here are Lizzie’s thoughts (author’s emphasis):

I didn’t know about the Purell. I don’t think I would have wanted to vacation with someone who brought Purell along. I even fantasized later that if I’d known about the Purell, maybe the vacation wouldn’t have happened. I didn’t remember Purell in London, perhaps it was a new fetish. Purell is a fetish. Once one carries it–I have noticed from those who do–it seems necessary throughout the day to cleanse. It reflects a constant awareness that the world is awash with bacteria and you, going about your innocent carefree way, are all the while collecting microbes that can murder you or at least give you the twenty-four-hour flu. It’s awkward to turn down Purell, so I didn’t. That struck almost as powerfully as the Pantheon, I’m ashamed to admit. It’s as if one is saying, I prefer germs, I prefer to eat with dirty hands, I have poor hygiene, I am a pig.

I really enjoyed Siracusa. Or maybe it’s just that I respect it. It’s very well-written. And though I agree with the reviewers who commented on the ending being predictable (and even then, I was still disappointed it wasn’t tied up a little differently) that’s not to say it wasn’t worth reading. It’s just not for everyone. It’s a bit more experimental, thin on action. In fact, the events that could best be described as high action scenes occur off the page (including the climax). But don’t let that stop you. Check it out here.

Bookish Links

Toni Morrison is More Hemingway Than Hemingway Himself– Here’s a statistical look at the usage of adverbs in modern fiction. Ben Blatt analyzed thousands of novel-length books in three different categories: fan-fiction, bestsellers, and award-winning literature to see if fewer adverbs really is the hallmark of higher quality writing. Like many authors, I tire of the so-called “writing rules” and welcome quantitative looks at the books we respect.

How to Overcome Rejection by 200 Literary Agents– This guest column discusses the pain and agony and determination that helped an author overcome 200 rejection slips and finally land an agent. Frankly, if I rack up even 100 rejection slips (after continuing to revise based on any feedback I get) I’m going to self-publish and get back to work on the second novel, which I will have already begun writing. Nevertheless, for those who yearn for that stamp of approval or those who find the heartbreaking process of submissions/querying/rejection interesting, this is a good read. It’s equal parts torment and inspiration.

Danielle Steel Loves the Weather… Literature by the Numbers– Here’s another statistical look at trends in literary fiction, including the use of exclamation points (it’s a lot more than 3 per book, contrary to popular advice), the use of cliches, the length of first sentences, and the frequency in which authors open with a line about the weather. For writers who think (fret) about such things, this is a must-read.

How Many Books Will You Read Before You Die?– It seems Lithub is taking the place of all my Guardian links this week. This article is by Emily Temple and attempts to answer the age-old bar question: how many books will you read in a lifetime. Naturally, it all comes down to how many you read per year, how old you are, and how long you’ve been a reader. I’ll probably come in somewhere around 1,700 if current trends continue. I see no reason for them not to.

Forget F. Scott: In ‘Z,’ Christina Ricci Tells Zelda Fitzgerald’s Story– Have you watched Z yet? It’s the very (very!) good Amazon Original series starring Christina Ricci about Zelda Fitzgerald and her life with husband F. Scott. Only one season is available so far on Prime Video, but it’s so good. Even if you’re not a reader and the only Zelda you know lives on a Nintendo system, it’s a great show. This article on NPR will bring you up to speed.

Bonus Link

The Sumo Matchup Centuries in the Making– My wife and I really enjoy sumo. Thanks to the NHK World app, we can even watch the nightly recap from each tournament (tournaments are 15 days and take place, roughly, every other month throughout the year). We were in Osaka on the final day of the March Basho in 2015, to see Hakuho win the tournament. And we watched in amazement last month as Kisenosato win his first tournament after his promotion to Yokozuna (miraculously winning after sustaining a significant injury on day 13). Kisenosato is the first Japanese Yokozuna in nearly twenty years. Anyway, the article I linked to is a deep-dive into the history and present era of sumo. Fantastic sports reading.

]]>https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/04/07/friday-links-30-purell-is-a-fetish/feed/0Muscling Through the Dash Point Half Marathonhttps://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/03/28/muscling-dash-point-half-marathon/
https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/03/28/muscling-dash-point-half-marathon/#respondTue, 28 Mar 2017 17:44:09 +0000https://dougwalsh.com/?p=759“Maybe we should do a race?” She wasn’t convinced. After all, we’d hardly been doing any running, me in particular. “What did you have in mind?” I scanned a trail running calendar I conveniently left open in another tab and saw there was a race at Dash Point State Park near Tacoma. “We can do Read More ...

She wasn’t convinced. After all, we’d hardly been doing any running, me in particular. “What did you have in mind?”

I scanned a trail running calendar I conveniently left open in another tab and saw there was a race at Dash Point State Park near Tacoma. “We can do this one, it’s a month away. Plenty of time to train.”

“For the 10k?”

“Let’s do the half marathon. It’s only $9 more,” I said, as if arguing for the larger bucket of popcorn at a movie theater and not a thirteen-mile race. It made no sense and I knew it. I hadn’t run more than five miles in a year. But that’s me when I’m making plans. I do it with no concern for current fitness levels. “Plus, we can check off another state park from our list.”

Various maps hung on the wall to our right, each pierced with dozens of multi-colored pins, a triptych of three-dimensional checklists. We’ve added a half-dozen new pins this year to the map of Washington’s State Parks. Kristin glanced at the map and nodded, her lips tight. “Okay, if you’re sure you’re going to train for it.”

“Enough to finish,” I said, and laughed as I clicked the registration link. This was late February.

My training wasn’t going to match Kristin’s. Her daily stop light runs in the city—turning in whatever direction has the walk signal—nets her up to to five miles each day at lunch. Once a week she does stairs, hiking the 65-flights of stairs of a nearby office tower. Twice. I would run three or four miles once or twice a week. Then, on the weekend, would go for a longer run of six to eight miles. I mixed in one or two rides on my mountain bike, a dust-collecting victim of the most miserable winter I can recall since moving to this land of perpetual gray and drizzle in 2002.

My lone attempt at making a serious foray into training involved a very hilly six-mile run that ultimately had me wandering around unfamiliar, snow-covered trails, trying to follow a GPS track I downloaded from Strava. Then, last weekend, a week before race day, we each went our separate ways, aiming for an eight to ten mile run on our neighborhood trails. The rain had been incessant, the woodchip trails were as much sponge as they were quicksand. Running water and shoe-sucking mud provided variety. I mapped a route in my head and decided that I’d run straight home from wherever I was when I hit eight miles. Knowing the distances of our trails too well, I hit the eight mile mark a short ways from home. Kristin ran nearly ten. Because, of course she did. She’s prudent.

Last Wednesday, I went out for one final tune-up run. I didn’t have a lot of time, so I kept it close to home. There was a gap in the constant rain so I opted for the roads instead of the trails. I hate running on pavement. I should have friends that stop me. I went too fast. Memories of my faster days, my youth, flood my mind when I’m running on the road, and just as my GPS watch beeped the third mile and as I saw I ran it in 7:22 (my fastest mile in too long), my left calf seized. I was walking three steps later. And walked the rest of the way home.

I had been dealing with calf tightness on and off for over a year. This was the third or fourth instance. Each time in the past, it took up to two weeks to fully go away. A byproduct of not enough water, not enough stretching, my overly-long stride on too-soft terrain, my past-their-use trail shoes, and, probably, a touch of too-much, too-soon. A physical therapist friend of mine studied my gait and my shoes and filled me with tips that kept the pain from recurring. And it worked. Right until I stopped following his advice, thinking I was beyond the need.

I realize I’m never going to beyond needing those tips. Life in my forties… sigh.

Can You Race?

It was the topic du jour each night at dinner and even moreso the morning of the race. Can I race? I didn’t know. I shouldn’t. That I did know. I could barely walk around the house without feeling that tinge of tightness. But nightly massages—thanks babe!—and stubbornness and the knowledge that this whole damn idea was mine and mine alone, had me at least wanting to try.

So we drove to the race and as Kristin went about her warm-up run, I gamely tried to run around the parking lot, convincing myself I could do it. Try to do it. Maybe the first lap. We’ll see.

The race began and the hundred-plus entrants shuffled double-file onto the trails and were soon queued up for a series of staircases.

Stairs were unexpected.

Though I had looked at an elevation profile of the course weeks prior, it masked how steep the terrain was. And we had never been here before. As a rule of thumb, I tend to consider an average of 100ft/mile being the mark of a hilly run. This two-lap course averaged over 200ft/mile for the first three miles (and then again later at miles seven through nine). And though the latter half of each loop was predominantly downhill, there was still plenty of ups sprinkled into the tight, twisty trails that grew slicker and muddier with each passing footfall. Total elevation totaled ~1540 feet for the course.

But my calf pain was a blessing in disguise. It forced me to run slower than I would have otherwise. It kept me from striding out the downhills, from sprinting to pass, or from taking the stairs two at a time. It kept me in check and, for that, I was thankful. Once, on mile four, I considered dropping out after the first lap. I hate multi-lap courses. They mess with your mind, as much a test of fortitude and determination as physical fitness. It’s easier to finish when there’s no alternative but continuing on, knowing the shortest way back lays ahead of you. But on a lap course? Passing your car halfway through? Knowing you can stop now, grab a clean set of clothes and a beer?

No, don’t think about it. Just keep going. Don’t succumb to the temptation of warmth and relaxation.

I grabbed some Cliff Bloks and Nuun at the aid station, having completed the first lap in 1:06, a time that felt impossibly slow and shameful because I remain haunted by the times I used to run, in races I ran half a lifetime ago.

Kristin’s co-worker and friend Linda caught up to me at the start of the second lap. I wished her well as she passed me on the stairs and never saw her again. My calf pain was uncomfortable but by the seventh mile, it wasn’t my issue. A lack of training was. I knew the only way I was going to finish was if I walked each and every hill during the second lap.

And so I did. My mile splits were each over a minute slower on the second lap. But so what? I kept moving. Left foot, right foot, left foot around the mud puddle, right foot slip-and-slide.

There were two lollipops on the course, short stretches where traffic moves out and in from an isolated loop. I passed Kristin late on my second lap, as I was leaving the latter of these lollipop loops, as she was entering the “stick.” We high-fived. I was happy to see her out there. She looked good, slower but steadier than I.

Years ago, when we used to do triathlon and marathons (and even some ultra-marathons), she would be the one with the nearly even splits. Her first marathon, I still remember, down in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, she ran a 4:14, going out in 2:05, and coming back in 2:09. Incredibly even splits. I rolled through the half-way point that day at 1:25 and came back in 1:50. Oops.

I tried not to look at my watch too often, to not worry about the time. It’s the beauty of trail running. The time is almost meaningless as even when courses do remain the same, the conditions change from year to year. What would my time be? Would I break two hours, as I had hoped weeks ago. Would I break 2:30, I wondered during my second lap.

I wondered about a lot during that lap.

My feet ached. So much pounding. Is that a blister on my arch? I’m too heavy for this shit, I thought. What ever happened to clydesdale divisions? That was so popular in triathlon years ago, back when I was podiuming at a lean 178 pounds. I wonder if they still have them. I’d probably do pretty good for my size.

Downhill from here. Down the stairs. Be careful on the bridges, they’re slick. You’re not on a mountain bike, Doug, don’t worry. Who put the uphill in the downhill? Ugh. Okay, there’s the tent. Round the corner. Tap the watch. Finish.

I think Kristin’s coming. High-five with Linda. Wow, she’s fast. Finished in 2:13. Nice job! I’ll have to buy her beer when we go out for lunch. Kristin’s done. 2:31. She’ll wish she had broken 2:30 after the fact. Because round numbers make great barriers. I’d wish the same.

Wanna Race Again?

It’s Tuesday, my calf is still a little sore, but I run up and down the stairs of our townhouse without trouble. I’ll go for a run today. It’ll be raining when I do. Writing this report reminded me to check if the results had been posted. It never occurred to either of us to look.

Kristin won her age group, finishing 1st out of 8 women in her group, 23rd out of 58 women overall.

I finished 5th in my age group out of 10 men, 25th out of 49 overall males. Middle of the pack. Middling preparation. Only fifteen people (including three women) broke two hours on the course. It was hard. I mentioned there were a lot of stairs, right?

The winning time of 1:28 was thirteen minutes ahead of second place.

We didn’t run this race because we cared about racing. It was just a goal, a marker on the calendar to inspire/scare us into getting out there and pushing a little harder, a little further. The goal isn’t to become fast. The goal is to lessen the discomfort of the other adventures we have planned this summer. Too many of our adventures last year hurt too much. We want to minimize that with preparation. How novel!

Do we want to race again? Yeah, probably. I like this distance. Half-marathon. 25k. Whatever you want to call it doesn’t matter, the distances are never exact in trail running. My GPS said the course was 11.8 miles, undoubtedly a short measurement based on the spaghetti-like network of trails. Was it 13.1? Who knows. Who cares?

We’re going to Florida in May. It will be hot. And flat. I think I’ll get some running in while I’m there. Even if it has to be on the road.

After all, the flattest race on the calendar is at the end of May. Two hours or bust(ed calf)!

]]>https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/03/28/muscling-dash-point-half-marathon/feed/0The Movies of My Lifehttps://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/03/24/the-movies-of-my-life/
https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/03/24/the-movies-of-my-life/#commentsFri, 24 Mar 2017 19:22:00 +0000https://dougwalsh.com/?p=751I’ve long believed that you can learn a lot about a person by the books they read, the movies they watch, and the music they listen to. As mass-market media production grows ever-more commoditized and commercialized with each passing year, so grows our access to independent, original, and foreign creations. I believe our consumption reveals Read More ...

]]>I’ve long believed that you can learn a lot about a person by the books they read, the movies they watch, and the music they listen to. As mass-market media production grows ever-more commoditized and commercialized with each passing year, so grows our access to independent, original, and foreign creations. I believe our consumption reveals that much more about who we are now than ever before, given the options available. Whether it be our willingness to be challenged, our intellectualism, our preferences, or even just our need for simple entertainment, the media we consume says a lot about us.

An acquaintance recently shared a list of his favorite movies from each year that he’s been alive. Movies are such a great reflection of who we are, as opposed to music and books, thanks to comparatively fewer numbers. In seeing his list I realized, immediately, how little he and I had in common. Sure, I had seen the majority of the films on his list (movies are great for establishing shared experiences between strangers), but only two of the thirty-odd choices struck me as a choice I’d make. Which gave me an idea…

Instead of posting another collection of bookish links today, I’m going to focus on movies. The favorite movies of my life!

Thanks to the searchable, database website Letterboxd, I was able to quickly peruse hundreds of the most popular films released from each of the 41 years I’ve been on this planet. The list below represents a compilation of my personal favorite movies from each year, not the movie I consider the best or the most impactful. In doing this exercise, rewatchability was prioritized over artistic merit or cultural importance. Essentially, I asked myself, over and over for each year, “If I could only watch one of these movies ever again, which would it be?”

The 70s

The 70s, I realized quickly, had a few outstanding films that stood the test of time, and then heaps of crap (this issue presents itself 25 years later). But it also provides the first glimpse into the “very bad nerd” whose website you’re currently reading. No Star Wars? Nope, sorry. I don’t even like Saturday Night Live that much but I’d rather watch it over Star Wars any day. Honestly, it was hard to not choose Pete’s Dragon for nostalgia’s sake.

Perhaps it’s just because the advent of the VCR and movie rentals happened to collide with the brilliance of John Hughes (the director responsible for a disproportionate number of these selections), which, in turn, coincided with the prime of my adolescence, but for my money, the mid to late 1980s were a golden age of movies. At least in terms of comedies. It was incredibly hard to pick a single movie from 1985-1988. Clue, The Goonies, Ferris Bueller’s Day off, Platoon, Princess Bride, Top Gun, and Dirty Dancing were just a handful of the movies I had to weed out. It’s always easy to make fun of the 1980s, especially in terms of pop music and fashion, but damn if it wasn’t one of the best decades for movies.

The 90s

Ah, my high school and college years. These were probably the easiest selections to make as, frankly, each year had only a few movies that really jumped out to me. The toughest choice I had in this lot was selecting Point Break over The Silence of the Lambs. Again, I won’t hesitate to name SotL the superior film, but if I only had to watch one again? No doubt, I’m paddling out with Johnny Utah. I’d also mention here that 1997 is, in my estimate, one of the worst years for movies — good thing I had a wedding to look forward to. There were a few unsung classics and there was Titanic, a movie I wouldn’t rewatch if doing so saved it from sinking.

Another collection of years with few choices that really spoke to me. The late 90s and early 00s were really lacking, with the exception of 2000. I had a hard time choosing between High Fidelity and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, Almost Famous, and O’ Brother Where Art Thou. But 2001 and2007 were just like 1997 and I had a hard time picking something. Think about it: Zodiac and Hot Fuzz were ranked as 3rd and 4th most popular films of 2007 on Letterboxd. For me, Into the Wild was a no-brainer of a choice, a movie based on a book that left a big mark on me as a teen, but still… And no, I really don’t even like The Hangover, but it was either that or Adventureland.

The 10s

I wish I could say these were as hard to pick as those in the 80s, but I can’t. So many movies of late — quality ones at that — are super hero flicks. And I just can’t get into them (you’ll notice I couldn’t get into Raiders of the Lost Ark, Harry Potter, Jurassic Park, or any of the other huge franchises either). For many of these years, there was just one movie I’d even consier putting on this list. And in 2013, I struggled to even name one. 42 is really good. It’s my favorite of the year by default, apologies to the legion of Frozen fans among you.

Which brings us to 2017. I haven’t seen any of the new films yet this year, but I’m looking forward to The Dark Tower, It, The Zookeeper’s Wife, and Fate of the Furious which, if I had to pick one, would be my favorite big-budget action franchise. In fact, we just watched Furious 7 again the other night with friends. Such ridiculous fun, those movies!

So now it’s your turn. How many of these would you agree with? Where do we differ? If you’ve got a few minutes, take a handful of years and share your picks in the comments or, if you’re feeling ambitious, put a list together like I did, post it, and share the link. I’m always up for some recommendations!

]]>https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/03/24/the-movies-of-my-life/feed/2Painting With Wordshttps://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/03/14/painting-with-words/
https://dougwalsh.com/index.php/2017/03/14/painting-with-words/#respondTue, 14 Mar 2017 17:14:21 +0000https://dougwalsh.com/?p=746As the early third of my book advances to the latter stages of revision and editing, I find myself now — finally — adding the artistic details that make reading so enjoyable. Namely, the similes, metaphors and turns-of-phrase that bring descriptive imagery to life in unique and original ways. Hopefully. So much of my time Read More ...

]]>As the early third of my book advances to the latter stages of revision and editing, I find myself now — finally — adding the artistic details that make reading so enjoyable. Namely, the similes, metaphors and turns-of-phrase that bring descriptive imagery to life in unique and original ways. Hopefully.

So much of my time spent working on my first novel has been about establishing, iterating, and refining my work process. One of the things I’ve found is that I work most efficiently by eschewing description and metaphor until at least the second draft, if not the third or fourth. By keeping my first draft basic and adjectives sparse, I can drive my story like a snowplow, maintaining traction, avoiding the icy patches that might cause me to slip, slide, and lose momentum of the page.

That there was a simile. A poor one at that, but a simile nonetheless. You know it’s a simile because I’m directly comparing the effort of writing a first draft to plowing snow, my writer’s momentum to traction, and the time it takes to create dazzling figures of speech and imagery with spinning one’s wheels on a patch of ice.

Crazy as a Fox

Google defines a simile as a figure of speech involving the comparison of one thing with another thing of a different kind, used to make a description more emphatic or vivid. Similes are often introduced with the words “as” or “like.”

Simon Winchester, one of my favorite non-fiction authors, contained this wonderful quote in his book Outposts. The excerpt is in reference to the Falklands War. Note the simile in the quote by Borges.

And so a small problem became a large tragedy. Thirteen hundred men died, hundreds more were maimed, thousands of million of pounds were expended in an unnecessary war over a piece of territory whose only function was as a symbol of power and strength, and had no intrinsic use at all. ‘Like two bald men fighting over a comb,’ Jorge Luis Borges remarked sardonically when it was all over.

Here’s another example of simile-rich description in Ian Frazier’s book On The Rez.

Le’s appearance has varied over those years. He is about six feet tall, and he has a broad face rather like the actor Jack Palance’s. His eyes can he merry and flat as a smile button, or deep and glittering with malice or slyness or something he knows and I never will. He is fifty-seven years old. I have seen his hair, which is black streaked with gray, when it was over two feet long and held with beaded ponytail holders a foot or so apart, and I have seen it much shorter, after he had shaved his head in mourning for a friend who had died. He has big hands which can grip a basketball as easily as I can hold a softball, and long arms.

Another example, from Chad Harbach’s brilliant novel, The Art of Fielding.

His chest hair waved to the surface like marine flora straining toward the light.

Not all similes work though, as this example shows, author and title removed to protect the guilty.

Of course I recognized Maia, with her nut brown skin and shiny black hair running around like a playful seal on the dock.

This phrase popped me out immediately when I encountered it. Do seals run? Don’t they sort of lurch and lunge and wobble? Or is she suggesting Maia was running around and not her hair? I’m so confused. I suspect the author initially wrote the word puppy, and then changed it thinking it too cliche. The alliteration of playful puppy would be nice — and tempting — but it’s been done to death. Playful seal could work if she changed the word running.

Trapdoor of Depression

All similes are metaphors, but not all metaphors are similes. Google defines a metaphor as a figure of speech in which a word or phrase is applied to an object or action to which it is not literally applicable. Like the header, there.

An example that I liked in Kitty Thomas’s book Tender Mercies took a cliche and turned it original.

She’d always hated the saying “Misery loves company”. Misery hated company; it only made the blanket of pain that much thicker and impossible to untangle oneself from.

Lauren Groff, in her brilliant novel Fates and Furies, had this wonderful description of a group of friends arriving for a dinner party.

They handed over spider plants in terra-cotta, six-packs, books, bottles of wine. Yuppies in embryo, miming their parents’ manners. In twenty years, they’d have country houses and children with pretentious literary names and tennis lessons and ugly cars and liaisons with hot young interns. Hurricanes of entitlement, all swirl and noise and destruction, nothing at their centers.

Chapter 27 in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is a font of wonderful description, simile, and metaphor. I probably highlighted more from that single chapter than in the previous four novels combined. Here’s an excerpt of J.K. Rowling’s work that I particularly enjoyed.

“That,” said Firenze calmly, “is human nonsense.” Parvati’s hand fell limply to her side. “Trivial hurts, tiny human accidents,” said Firenze, as his hooves thudded over the mossy floor. “These are of no more significance than the scurryings of ants to the wide universe, and are unaffected by planetary movements.”

“Professor Trelawney —” began Parvati, in a hurt and indignant voice.

“— is a human,” said Firenze simply. “And is therefore blinkered and fettered by the limitations of your kind.”

An Example From My WIP

Speaking of Firenze, the Italian city we know as Florence, it’s only fare that I share an excerpt from my upcoming book, Tailwinds Past Florence. Here’s a brief excerpt from the first scene.

The road was a cotton-blanketed ribbon of asphalt laid amongst a black forest of Douglas firs and slumbering aspen. The effect was one of a narrow trench cleaved into a plateau of treetops, the two cyclists mere drifters along a paved stream at the bottom of an inescapable gorge. Out in the distance, the steel-blue silhouette of the Rocky Mountains loomed. It was his first time to Montana, but Edward couldn’t shake the feeling that he had been here before. Not in a goose-bumpy déjà vu kind of way, but something deeper. Like a faded memory, played in reverse.

Rather than major in English as I had intended when I went off to college all those years ago, I focused on the sciences, avoiding English classes entirely. It’s not something I regret, as my experience with scientific research served me well as as a technical writer, but it does mean I sometimes need a refresher course in those old high-school language lessons. Though one doesn’t need to be capable of labeling various parts of speech in order to write well, I did find this lesson on metaphor and simile to be helpful. The Daily Writing Tips website is chock full of helpful articles like this.